Some Futile Hope by Luxa

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Part Two: Chapter Eight

There is battle, and Elrond is injured.

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Second Age, August 28th, 1699. 5:49 A.M.

The orcs were desperate, but they weren't stupid.

The battle was harder than his previous ones. He was fatigued from months of small rations, and the soldiers around him were suffering too. Their horses were gone, and Elrond had hardly done any fighting as a foot soldier.

But he was alive, and right then, that was what mattered.

Fire burned through his veins as he wielded his blade, shouting his voice hoarse as he barked orders and yelled in the name of Gil-galad, in the name of the High King, even in the name of Valinor.

The sun was soon up, and the orcs began to retreat. With each step Elrond could feel his spirits return, even through his adrenaline fueled haze. He could even be called heartened, if such a word could apply to one covered with blood and gore.

Then came the mace.

He had been careless. At some point, Elrond had lost the edge of his mind, letting himself fall into an easy fighting style. He was staving off two orcs with his blade and barely registered the third orcs when the mace slammed into his arms and wrenched his sword out of his hand.

Elrond had never felt such pain. He heard his bones crack and break, his scream of agony joining those around him. He didn't have the time to suffer, though. The two orcs were slain, either by him or a passing friend, he could not remember. Everything was covered in blood and going black around the edges. He reached for his sword with his left hand only to find that it didn't respond, except to shoot unbearable pain up his arm. He fumbled for the sword with his right hand instead, grabbing it and brandishing it clumsily. His fingers nearly slipped in the grime and dirt of the hilt.

Around them, the battle raged, but for a moment it felt like a showdown between Elrond and this grinning orc and his blood-coated mace. When Elrond saw the sticky liquid dripping from the weapon, he nearly threw up. That was his blood. His blood coated the orc's sword, and soon it it would be joined with others' if Elrond did not act. He dodged the next swing of the mace and got in close with the orc, so close that he could smell its stench. The orc stepped back in confusion, causing the mace to clip Elrond's leg.

Pain reared its head again, but he ignored it and shoved his sword into the orc's chest like a spear, unable to wield a sword right-handed with more finesse. The orc fell, the mace going slack in his hand. Elrond struggled for breath as he stood over his body, too pained for any feeling of accomplishment to come.

The orcs were still retreating. Elrond had forgotten about the big picture in the midst of his small battle. He tried to raise the cry of victory, but his voice wouldn't shout loud enough.

"Lord Elrond!"

He knew that voice. As the orcs around him ceased to fight in favor or being slaughtered as they ran, a familiar golden-haired warrior found him.

"Glorfindel," he said. "Wonderful. I am glad to see you survived the battle."

"A few orcs couldn't take me down," said Glorfindel, grinning tiredly. "More than a few, perhaps, but-Elrond, what's wrong?"

Elrond had unconsciously reached for Glorfindel's shoulder for support. As the adrenaline wore off, his arm and leg throbbed with increasing pain.

"I was injured in the battle," he said, managing to keep his voice calm. "It is of no great matter. There are still orcs ahead to fight. I will not remain here, left behind in the dust."

"Let me see."

"No, Glorfindel," said Elrond firmly, stepping forward to find that his leg was quite stable. He hadn't yet looked at his arm, although by the feel of it it was still bleeding quite badly. "My wounds are not life-threatening. I will deal with them after the battle."

"Elrond, you're being-"

"It was not up for debate."

Elrond took the lead, following the armies as fast as his injured leg would let him.

Second Age, August 28th, 1699. 8:24 A.M.

"We did it. I can scarcely believe that we actually won."

"Doubting your troops, my lord? asked Glorfindel, raising an eyebrow.

Elrond would have laughed if he wasn't so tired and sore. "Not at all. Only myself. The army did very well, but we must remember that we have only driven the orcs back. They still thirst for our blood on the other side of the river."

"Which they won't try to forge again, if they have any sense," said one of Elrond's advisors, approaching them. "With luck, it will rain, and the Bruinien will turn back into its usual untamable self."

His advisor's face darkened when he saw Elrond's arm, which hung by his side uselessly.

"My lord," he said carefully, as Elrond waited for the inevitable advice. "Have you had a healer look at that? It seems to be quite bad."

"I know what it seems to be," said Elrond. "But it is my injury, and who has a better grasp of it but me? I will seek aid when we have time, and no sooner."

"Forgive me for saying it, but-"

"And forgive me for interrupting you, Fenyriel, but I will save you from our esteemed lord's harsh words by beating you to the bush. Elrond, have you actually given your arm a good look since you were injured? Because you need to. And then you need to find the best healer in this valley to fix it for you, because otherwise-"

Elrond turned away from Glorfindel, effectively cutting him off.

"Fenyriel," he said firmly. "What did you come to tell me? You have the look of one who bears good news."

The young advisor smiled nervously. "I do, my lord. The orcs in their haste to flee left behind many of their supplies, full wagons even."

"Food?" said Elrond, his heart jumping into his throat. "The orcs left behind their supplies, including food? This is a good day, a very good day. Not only are the orcs left without their precious supplies, but we will not go hungry. Fenyriel, have the amount and type of supplies counted immediantly, and we will begin distribution as soon as possible."

Fenyriel hesitated, wiping grime off his forehead. "Many are worried about the orc food, my lord. It may not be edible."

Elrond laughed shortly. "Even on the brink of starvation, my soldiers balk at the idea of touching food handled by orcs? If it is truly inedible, dispose of it, but only then. Go, bring the news to the other advisors and commanders, and be quick about it."

When Fenyriel left, Elrond made to find someone with a general report of the casualties, but he was stopped by a rough grip on his injured arm. He was nearly brought to his knees by the pain and turned quickly to find Glorfindel, white-faced with rage, holding his arm in the air.

"Do not ignore me like that again," growled Glorfindel. "I am not a gossiping old hen you can qualm with honeyed words. I am trying to help you, and help you I will, even if it irks you as it seems to be doing."

Glorfindel lifted Elrond's arm higher in the air. Elrond could not stifle the cry that followed.

"Look at this," said Glorfindel harshly. "Really look at it. I do not think you have."

Elrond reluctantly centered his gaze on his arm, seeing for the first time the truth he had been so desperate to avoid.

His armor he'd so treasured had not protected him from the mace. Instead, his arm was a red, oozing mess, armor plates crushed into the broken bones. He tried to bend his fingers but was rewarded with a shooting pain instead. Blood was trickling from where Glorfindel gripped his arm, and when Elrond felt it with his left hand, the skin underneath the arm was swollen and mushy.

"You're right," said Elrond quietly. "This is bad."

"Don't forget about your leg, either, you dense idiot," said Glorfindel, dropping his arm. "That's injured too, although not nearly as bad as your arm."

"Maces," sighed Elrond, still feeling his arm, the way the armor helped crush his bones, the awful way it had begun to try and heal. "Who invented maces?"

Glorfindel slung a tired arm over his shoulder and began to lead him towards the healers' tents.

"I have some choice words about maces," said Glorfindel, a trace of amusement in his voice. "But I fear it would not be proper to repeat them in such high-born company as yourself, my lord."

Elrond's laugh was brittle. "Fuck maces."

"Hmm?"

"You heard me. Fuck maces, Glorfindel, and all those who wield them."

"As you say, my lord."